


Him and She

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [114]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 16:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15711411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: There’s someone at his table this morning. Again.





	Him and She

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: When I first moved here, I was content being alone. Now I’m not so sure. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

There’s someone at his table this morning. Again.

Ky notices her right away; his eyes make a beeline for her because somehow, he knew she’d be here.

He grits his teeth and marches across the shop to the counter.

“Hey, good morning!” the barista trills. “What can I get you?”

Oh god. He must be new.

Ky doesn’t look at him, keeps his gaze on the counter, on the tip jar that’s just sucking quarters. He’s trying to keep his temper down, the fuzzy feeling in the back of head in check. It’s way too early for this shit. “Americano, grande, shot of vanilla. Please.”

If the guy feels freezed out, he doesn’t show it. Or, sound it, as the case might be. “Of course. Did you want hot or iced?”

Ky’s head snaps up, horrified. _Do I look like someone who drinks_ iced _coffee?_ he thinks. _Jesus_. “Uh, _hot_.”

The barista nods cheerily. “Alright. That’ll be $2.50.”

Ky drops exact change in the guy’s hand and skulks down the counter, hovers by the free book shelf and glowers in the direction of his table. The one he should be sitting at. The one that’s been his for six months, no question, no takers. It’s not even six AM, for fuck’s sake, and he’s the only one in the place, as it should be; who the fuck else voluntarily gets up this early and camps out for an hour before the world gets going, before work? Him. He does. All four other tables in the place are free and the two seats at the end of the counter; why’s she have to make a point of sitting at his?

It’s ruined. The whole morning is ruined. All because this one person has beat him here for the third time in two weeks and taken over his space. It makes him want to punch something.

“Hey!” the chirpy barista calls. “Americano’s all ready for you.”

He takes two steps and snatches, ducks his head without a word and heads for the door. Slips a longing look at his spot, his table, the one currently occupied by a woman and a stack of textbooks and--and oh, fuck. Of course--an enormous iced coffee.

He sneers and bangs his way out the glass door.

*****

She’s there again the next day. Because of course she fucking is.

This time, as he’s leaving, Ky scowls at her openly, lets his fury sit up on his face.

Her hair is in a haphazard bun and she has a pen between her teeth, her fingers moving silent over her laptop, her eyes fixed on the screen. The stack of books is shorter this morning. The iced coffee is not.

She doesn’t look at him. Good.

*****

Friday, he sets his alarm for a half an hour early and speeds through his shower. Isn’t as careful as he should be about making too much noise.

When he steps out of his bedroom, Armie’s slouched sleepy on the sofa, a sad cup of tea between his hands. “Fucking,” Armie says, “you fucking fucker. Woke me up.”

“Doesn’t mean that you had to get up.”

Armie bobs his head around. “Triggered my morning routine, is all. I was powerless to stop it.”

Ky shrugs on his coat and digs up his bag. “So your morning routine doesn’t include putting on pants?”

“Doesn’t include…?” Armie looks down in slow motion. “Well, shit.”

He bolts down the stairs and runs the two blocks in the cold, his breath moving ahead of him in quick white clouds, his heart pounding. _Please_ , he thinks. _Please_.

He gets there right as they open, right as new barista is flipping over the “We’re Open” sign.

“Hey,” the guy says, a little startled, as Ky charges in. “Hot Americano, right?”

Ky dumps his satchel on the table and takes off his coat, his scarf, drapes them possessive over both chairs. He’s practically beaming. No, strike that: he is.

She’s not there by the time his coffee is ready; not there when he pulls his book out and settles into the wooden chair, the rickety one whose creaks and groans he knows how to ride. He finishes one chapter and moves on to the next and she’s _still_ not there. Goddamn. It’s great.

He gets lost in the story, pulled deep into the jungle of H. Rider Haggard’s words, and for the first time all week, he forgets about her, the usurper, the woman who’d temporarily overran this little corner of his world.

Forgets, that is, until there’s a tap on his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” the woman says, _she_. “You’re in my seat.”


End file.
